The Good Fight
by Nancy T
Summary: The Eppes and Winchester brothers team to help a student of Charlie's, the victim of a horrific crime. Supernatural content, but Don & Charlie aren't going to go all ghostbusters on you. Inspired by a challenge from CFlat.
1. Chapter 1

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

_This story takes place in May, 2001, approximately four years before the beginning of both series._

A large canister of rock salt with a narrow spout sat on the floor beside the altar, which was draped in midnight blue. The dry-erase board had been pushed back against the wall in front of the old chalkboard. Chairs had also been pushed aside to leave the circle in the middle of the room, but not in front of the door, because Jon was late. Manuel had finally got the incense burner going, and the white smoke was already making the air savory. Pam closed her eyes and breathed deeply, seemingly trying to relax.

"We are going to freak some security guard right out," Carol said.

Manuel shook his head, gently blowing out the match and placing it in an iron dish on the altar. "He's an older guy, half-dozes downstairs and checks the outside doors every once in awhile. It's not like we have fissionable material in this building."

"We did say we shouldn't do this in any of our usual spots," Pam said. "And this room is good. I feel safe here."

"I don't mind," Hugh said. He hadn't had time to change after work, and he was still wearing his oil-stained short-sleeved work shirt. "This is probably the only time I'm ever going to see the inside of one of these classrooms."

"Is it everything you dreamed it would be?" Manuel asked in a mock-sentimental tone.

"Well, I was kind of hoping for marble halls and white robes," Hugh said, and Manuel laughed as Jon opened the door.

Everyone greeted him, and Pam expelled a sigh as she smiled, as though she'd been holding her breath without realizing it.

"Sorry to be late," Jon said. I was picking this up." He brandished a bottle of wine with one hand; in the other he held a stack of paper cups.

Hugh indicated a glass carafe on the altar. "We already have – "

"This isn't for ritual," Jon said. "Well, it sort of is, if you consider a toast a ritual. And it's for an apology, too."

No one asked what for. Jon put the bottle on a student desk and pulled the cork as Pam began unstacking the cups and asked him, "So – you're – doing better?"

"I am," Jon told her. "Thank you, Pam. You were right. And you didn't even call me an asshole, which you could've. Rage makes us vulnerable. If Cal hadn't been constantly enraged, the thing wouldn't have got him. And my rage since Cal died was opening me up to all kinds of crap."

He was pouring, Pam was distributing. Carol said, "Don't kick yourself too hard, Jon. I think we all got a little irrational for awhile."

Jon looked up at the complex equation on the dry erase board and smiled. "Well, this is a place for rationality, for sure." He raised his cup, and the others followed suit. "Here's to Cal Carson, a damn fine hunter. And to absolute determination, without rage."

"Hear, hear," Hugh said, and they all drank. Pam broke off and glanced over at Jon, hearing him choke as he drained his glass, but he finished it without further trouble, and she took another sip.

Manuel set down his empty cup, his mouth showing that he didn't think much of Jon's taste in wine, but he simply said, "Thanks, Jon. Good note to get started on." He gestured at the canister of salt. "You want to do the honors?"

"Sure," Jon said, smiling.

It took him a long time to pour the salt circle, but the others understood his caution, and they had their own preparations to make. Carol was the first to notice, abruptly dropping her black bowl filled with water onto the altar. "Oh. Oh, God."

She turned and looked at Jon, then fell to her knees. As she collapsed completely, Hugh gave a violent groan and bent double.

"Carol, what – Hugh!" And just as she saw them fall, Pam herself bent over, grabbed a desk with a shaking hand, and vomited violently. Jon groaned, fell to the floor.

"No," Pam said between choking spasms of sickness. "No, please, no – "

Manuel tried to get to the door, fell over a chair and lay, his breath rasping as if someone were choking him.

"Please," Pam said, crawling toward her purse, "please – "

She had her cell phone in her hand, and then there was a hand on hers taking it away. With a spasmodic jerk, Jon threw the phone a few feet away. Then he rolled onto his back and his neck doubled as he threw his head back and his jaw gaped. The demon that had possessed him jetted down his throat and out of his mouth, a huge black funnel cloud that by all laws of physics could never have been contained in a human body. The cloud covered the classroom ceiling, then sheeted sideways out of the salt circle through the break Jon had left when he poured it, and disappeared through the ceiling vents.

"I couldn't stop it," Jon said to Pam, tears running down his face. "God, I tried, I couldn't – "

Near Pam's phone, Hugh cried out, a childlike sound coming from a big man, and crashed to the floor, making gasping sounds, as Carol was. Manuel had stopped making any sound at all. The last time Pam ever saw Jon, he was going into convulsions.

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Don Eppes awoke in his parents' home at 7:00 a.m. and stretched mightily, having enjoyed his extra vacation sleep. But he didn't enjoy lazing in bed, so he combed his hair, threw on some clothes, slipped out quietly so as not to waken anyone, and drove to a familiar little diner near the heart of Pasadena.

Since the diner was just north of the office buildings around the intersection of Lake and Colorado, its usual morning clientele consisted of office workers, rubbing their eyes as they finished their muffins, drinking coffee as they stared at the business pages of the newspaper. On Sundays, though, breakfasters were mostly the pre- and post-church crowd, who came in a little later. Joe Edwards, the owner, greeted him familiarly and waited on him personally, although there was a teenage kid helping the few other clients. Don and Joe caught up on a little history and then, as the other customers left, Joe went back to the office, leaving Don to his breakfast and the sports section and the quiet.

Don saw the thing flash by his head an instant before it smashed against the wall and he almost hit the floor before he realized: too big for a bullet, too quiet for a firecracker. He turned sharply in his chair. "What the hell–"

He stopped. The skinny kid with floppy hair in the kitchen doorway was obviously so horrified that any reproach of Don's would be redundant. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, man. I didn't know anyone was in here."

"Well, I'm glad. I'd have hated to think that was aimed at me."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. What was that?"

The kid was going over to the wall. "My cell phone."

Don raised his eyebrows. "Bad news?"

"You know, I was listening to a voicemail and I got so – focused – on it, I just didn't even look at the rest of the room."

"A girl?"

"Family stuff."

"Mm." Even in a monosyllable, Don could sound rueful.

The kid was standing by the wall looking down at the corpse. "Guess I won't have to be listening to voicemail again for a while."

"Probably just as well, if it sets you off like that."

"I don't do that kind of thing usually. I mean it. It's just my dad. 'Just blow off your job. Drop everything and come back here because we might or might not have something important for you to do. College isn't important, you know, why do you need a life?' You know what I mean?"

Don had to smile. "Sorry, I can't even begin to identify. The night I hit the winning home run in the regionals, my dad cheered for two minutes and then wanted to know if I'd decided on my classes for next year."

"Wanna switch dads?" The kid gave him a little crooked smile, and Don responded. "Depends. What does your dad do?"

"He's, he owns a garage. Auto repair."

Hiding something. Even before his FBI training Don had had good instincts for that, but he also knew you can never jump to conclusions about what's being hidden. "Well, that's good money. Does he think you're just trying to be better than he is?"

"Better, worse, wouldn't matter, what bugs him is me trying to be different than he is."

"Can your mom run interference?"

"She died when I was a baby. My dad and my brother, they're the only family I've ever known."

"Makes it even harder to break away. You're not going to CalSci by any chance, are you?"

"No. Pasadena City College." The kid started cleaning a nearby table, stacking dishes and glasses. "I got my high school degree a semester early and got down here as soon as I could. But the main goal is Stanford."

"That's ambitious."

"Yeah. We moved around a lot when I was growing up, and I didn't really have time to get the kind of academic credentials and, you know, extracurricular activities that could get me in there." The kid stopped stacking and looked at Don. "But I figure, if I work my ass off for a couple of years here, I have a shot at completing my degree there, and a Stanford degree will get me into a good law school, maybe even Stanford Law itself."

Don grinned. "A man with a plan."

The kid picked up the stacks. "Sorry. Didn't mean to dump all that on you. I've only been thinking about it since I was about thirteen."

"Well, if all else fails, try for an athletic scholarship. You've got a heck of an arm."

Joe, in transit from the office to the kitchen, laughed. "What are you, Don, moonlighting as a college recruiter? Aren't the feds keeping you busy enough in New Mexico?"

"Hey, you never know when crime is gonna dry up."

"I forgot to ask before about your mom and dad."

"They're fine, thanks. Mom was bouncing off the walls last night, they're hosting a big block party today. Do you want to come over? Or are you going to be here through lunch?"

"No, I'm actually closing right after breakfast and taking off the next few days. Anna's family's in town and we've got plans. But I would like to see your folks some other time."

"They'd like to see you too." Don addressed the employee, who was now wiping down tables. "This guy's been a family friend for, what, 25 years? I used to work here after school, so I know the kind of crap you're putting up with."

Joe began, "And no one knows crap like – "

"Don?" A young man was in the diner doorway. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and mismatched running shoes; his hair combined the curly locks of a Romantic poet with a small explosion. "I didn't know you were here."

"Hi, Charlie! The usual?" Joe asked, and the young man nodded, crossing the room.

"On your way to the office?" Don asked, and then, as one trying to frame the question delicately, "You do know it's Sunday, right?"

Charlie gave Don a withering look. "Yes, I am aware of the day," he said, and then, as though he'd just remembered something, "This time. But I just realized – I had a thought, and I'm going over to the school."

"PCC?" asked Joe's employee.

"CalSci."

"Cool. What's your major?"

Don's mouth quirked and the kid saw it. Charlie said, "I'm a professor of mathematics."

The kid chortled. "Pleased to meet you, I'm a brain surgeon," then realized no one else was laughing.

"This is my kid brother, Charlie," Don said. "He's gifted. Charlie, this is – uh – "

"Sam. Winchester. Hi. Sorry. You just look really young to be a CalSci professor."

"I am," Charlie said simply, and there was an awkward silence. Sam retreated to the kitchen. Charlie paid Joe for a sweet roll and coffee to go, and headed for the door.

"Don't forget the party," Don said. "Mom said she really hopes you'll mingle a little."

Charlie nodded at Don absently. "Party. Yes," he said, and departed.

"One of these days," Don mused to thin air, "my brother and I are actually going have a conversation."

"Hey, at least you talk," Joe said in a low tone, moving over to Don's table. "Sam in there just had his 18th birthday. His father and brother couldn't even make it into town, couldn't even send a present. Anna and I had him over for birthday cake."

"Hard to fathom," Don agreed. He left a generous tip on the table and went with Joe to the register to settle up. "I'll tell the folks you said hi."

"Tell them I'll call them next week. It's been too long."

Sam came back out to clear Don's table, and Don said, "Uh, Sam. If you don't have anything else to do this afternoon, you want to come to my parents' party? It doesn't sound too exciting, but some good-looking girls live in my folks' neighborhood. And my mom's potato salad is legendary."


	2. Chapter 2

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

The kid gave him a look that was so deeply grateful it was kind of pathetic. "That'd be great. Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it."

"It starts at 11, but it's just a block party, people will be drifting in and out until 3 or 4. You can get the address and directions from Joe. Joe, say hi to Anna for me."

"Will do. Wait, before you go, I have to show you pictures of my newest grandbaby."

"Got another good-looking one?" Smiling down at the pictures, Don still noticed Sam out of the corner of his eye. The kid dropped his cell phone in the trash as though he were still angry. But before he did, he punched a few buttons and held it to his ear, trying to hear again the voicemail that had so enraged him.

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Actually, Don was surprised when Sam did show up for the party at 11:15, and a little chagrined. It suddenly struck him that, since Sam knew no one else, he was going to have to play host all afternoon. But he'd reckoned without two things: the ability of a kid who's moved around a lot to strike up fast acquaintanceships, and the maternal instinct of Margaret Eppes kicking in the moment she saw Sam's skinny arms and puppy-dog eyes. The next thing Don knew, Sam with sitting with several of the Eppeses' younger neighbors, making easy conversation as he balanced a mountainous plate of food on his knee, and Don felt free to join his dad for a quiet beer on the porch.

"Now that's a car," Alan Eppes said during a lull in their talk. He was watching a long black classic, polished to a blinding gleam, as it drove slowly along the street.

"That's an Impala?" Don said with an equally admiring look. "Sixty – "

"Sixty-seven. A beauty. Whoever owns that really knows how to fix up a car."

At the exact moment he said that, the car pulled over to an empty space at the curb and stopped. A solidly built, slightly graying man emerged from the passenger side even before the driver had shut the engine off.

"Ohh," said Don. "I have the feeling that this is the guy trying to reach Sam."

"The phone thrower?" A young man in a black leather jacket sprang out of the driver's door and the two started purposefully up the sidewalk. "His dad must be desperate to talk to him."

"Yeah, and Sam is pretty desperate not to talk."

"Well, I sympathize with the dad." Alan stood as the two visitors began crossing the lawn, but continued talking to Don through his smile. "But it would be nice not to have a fist fight at your mother's party."

"Copy that," Don said, also standing and smiling. Then, as the visitors reached the porch, "That's a beautiful car."

"Thanks," the younger man said, and the older man asked, "Is this the Eppes residence?"

"It is, I'm Alan Eppes. What can I do for you?"

The middle-aged man stepped up to shake Alan's hand, smiling pleasantly. The younger man, looking around watchfully, stayed a step to the rear. "I'm John Winchester, this is my son Dean. Joe Edwards told us that my son Sam might be here."

"Joe's a great guy, isn't he? How do you know him?" Alan was heartily friendly, and not moving.

"I don't. Sam told us he was working at the restaurant, and luckily we got there just as Joe was closing up. He told us where Sam might be. We've had a family emergency, and it's very important that I talk to him. I understand if you don't want party crashers, but would you mind if we spoke to him out here?"

If Alan had been looking for signs of a hot temper, clearly they weren't forthcoming. Quite the opposite: Don was suddenly reminded of a guest lecturer he'd heard at the FBI Academy, a man legendary in law enforcement for his skill in hunting serial killers and his ability to emotionally handle the job. John Winchester had the same persona, a quiet haggard toughness.

Don looked at Dean and was a little surprised to see that, as he'd been observing Dean's dad, Dean had been observing him.

Alan had obviously decided that the Winchesters passed muster. "What crashing? It's a block party. Come on in," he said, and led the way.

There were perhaps 30 people in the Eppeses' spacious back yard, sitting in conversational rings on the rented folding chairs or standing by the picnic table where a feast was laid out. On a nearby table, tubs of ice held bottles of tea, soda pop and beer. Don was amused at the way Dean's eyes lit up at the array of goodies. When he dropped the role of straight-faced aide-de-camp for his father, Dean was a good-looking guy with a boyish grin and rather hard eyes, probably catnip for girls; could that be a source of family strain, Don wondered?

John Winchester, undistracted by food, spotted Sam in one quick sweep of the yard and headed for him, Dean following. Don went along, just on the chance that things got too interesting, as did Alan.

Sam was listening with amusement to a guy telling a story with vigorous hand gestures, but when he spotted his father he excused himself. He met John and Dean a few steps away from the group of people he'd been with.

"We have to talk, son," John said.

"Good to see you too, Dad." Sam was quiet and controlled. "Pull up a chair. Have some potato salad."

"I'm serious."

"My birthday was great. Thanks. I almost have enough money saved for next year. Want to know what classes I'm going to be taking?"

"Don't be smart with me. This is an emergency."

"It's always an emergency. Dad, what's the point? I know what you're going to say and you know what I'm going to say. We'll start out talking, we'll end up bellowing." Sam glanced quickly at the people around them. "Let's just – let's don't and say we did."

"Sam, as a general rule I wouldn't butt in," Alan began, "but as a father, I understand – "

"Don?"

Don turned to see Charlie, and instantly lost all interest in the Winchester family drama. Charlie was literally pale. His eyes were shocked, his face vulnerable and childlike. He looked like the 10-year-old who'd been threatened by a ninth-grade bully for correcting him in class.

"Charlie? What is it, buddy? You look awful."

"I feel – I'm going to sit down." He looked around blankly for a chair, and Mr. Levinson from next door was standing there, chair in hand. Several people, in fact, were suddenly close, and Don had the feeling they knew something he didn't.

Charlie sat down. "There was a – meeting – some group or cult – at CalSci last night. They drank poison. The police don't know if it was mass suicide or murder-suicide. Four of them are dead."

"Margaret," Alan said in a low, urgent tone, which Mrs. Eppes caught from halfway across the yard.

Don looked around in disbelief. A few people were nodding, like Mr. Levinson. "It was all over the news this morning. I didn't really want to talk about it here, with children around."

"Group of kids committed suicide at CalSci last night," Alan murmured to Margaret.

"Dear God." The beautiful dark-haired woman, regardless of her pale blue outfit, dropped to her knees on the grass beside Charlie and put her hand on his arm. Charlie was buoyed a little by her presence; he smiled at her weakly.

"We haven't had the TV on this morning," Alan said almost apologetically. "We've been getting ready for the party."

"Do they know – " Margaret looked around – "was it a religious thing, a – "

"They really don't know much." A red-haired woman Don didn't recognize. "It wasn't just a student thing, there were other people involved. Someone said they called themselves the Hunt Club."

A flicker of motion in the corner of Don's eye. Sam Winchester had jerked his head around, and he and his father were gazing at each other with no hostility at all.

"Did you know any of them?" the Levinsons' teenage son asked.

"Two. Two of them were my students. One of them survived. The only survivor." Charlie looked up at Don with tears in his eyes. "This is beyond my comprehension."

Mr. Levinson gestured with his head, and he and his son moved a few yards away, followed by the others with finer feelings. The Winchesters, however, remained as though locked into place behind Don.

"The campus is closed. I've been talking to the police, well, waiting for them and talking to them. I tried answering their questions, but they had no information for me, or none that they would give me."

"They can't tell too much at a time like this," Margaret said gently. "They don't want to jump to conclusions, or want other people jumping to conclusions."

"But don't they see, the lack of data is more likely to lead to erroneous conclusions. Pam, the survivor, she was struggling in my class. I remember she frequently needed assistance during office hours. How can I know whether she – whether I was pushing too hard, she felt she couldn't – "

All three of the Eppses made sounds of dismay. "I've seen you teach, you're not like that," Margaret said, as Don said, "Nah, that's ridiculous!" and Alan said, "What would even make you think that, Charlie?"

"Because it was my classroom," Charlie said numbly. "The room where I taught Pam and Manuel. That's where they did it."

No wonder, Don thought. His little brother who sometimes seemed barely conscious of other people, no wonder he was so upset. Wakened from his beautiful dream of mathematical symmetry by an insane cult slamming his face into the messiness and occasional horror of human life. Don felt an irrational desire to go kick someone's butt.

"This is why I was pushing so hard to talk to Sam," John told Alan. His voice was gentle, soothing. "Something like this happens – you have kids the same age – you want to make sure they're safe."

Alan nodded.

"Have you talked to her?" Sam asked Charlie.

"Who?"

"Your student. Have you asked her why they picked your classroom?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

"She's at Huntington Memorial. I doubt if they would – " Charlie shook his head. "No. Let's be honest. I don't think I want to know."

"But maybe you need to know." Sam pulled a chair over to sit facing Charlie, and Don had a strange feeling that he was watching someone much older and much more experienced than the kid he'd invited over. "Look, you know there's a 99 percent chance she'll say that the room was picked randomly."

"But there's not a 99 percent chance that the room was picked randomly. The odds of their having picked a room at random, but in which two of them had a class – "

"OK," Sam said with a grin, "not randomly, but with no thought of you or even the class. It was just a place everyone knew how to get to, or something like that."

"And if she said otherwise? That the room was associated with despair, or that they were trying to send a message – "

"They weren't, Charlie!" Margaret said, but somehow Sam's voice ruled: "Then you've got something to deal with. But you're dealing with something anyway. Uncertainty sucks."

Charlie nodded.

"I'd be willing to give you a lift," Dean said casually.

"I don't think – " Don began.

"You want to take shotgun in the Impala, Don?" Dean asked.

Frailty, thy name is Man before a classic automobile. "Um. Only if Charlie actually wants to go."

"I think I do. Yes. I want to understand this."

"You know you'll probably never really understand why they did it," Margaret said. "The human mind can't be reduced to a set of algorithms."

"Actually, it probably could be," Charlie said thoughtfully. "But no, that's not the depth of understanding I'm hoping for at this point. At this point, I just want more data."

"Can you wait a few minutes for me?" Don asked, and Charlie nodded. Don headed for the house, clapping Charlie on the shoulder as he passed. "Let me make a couple of calls. I'm gonna get you some data."


	3. Chapter 3

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

When they headed out, Sam went with them. Don wasn't sure at what point that had been decided, but he and Charlie seemed to have established a rapport, and Don would have led a political convention to the hospital if it gave Charlie some peace of mind.

After they'd all piled into the car, Don began, "All right. The girl's name – "

He paused as the Impala's eight cylinders roared to life, and exchanged a grin with Dean. "Nice."

"Thanks," Dean said, and pulled out.

Don re-focused. "Her name is Pamela Villiers. She's awake, in serious but stable condition. Her mom's a set decorator on location in Hungary, she's due back here tonight. Father died when she was twelve. Pasadena PD has already been in to talk to her, but they couldn't get much from her. At one point she denied it was a suicide attempt, at another point she was talking so crazy they were sure it was.

"The guy who brought in the poison was a Jon Wendell. They're pretty sure that he did intend to kill himself. He obtained the cyanide online, using a scam that took them about five minutes to trace to him, so obviously he wasn't worried about the consequences of getting caught. It was mixed in with a bottle of wine. The room looked like they were having some kind of ritual."

"But then it must have been mass suicide," Sam interjected. "Otherwise they'd have smelled the cyanide and not drunk the wine."

"Not necessar – " Don began.

"It's only in movies – " Dean said at the same moment.

"Actually, most people – " Charlie said at the same moment.

They all broke off and Sam chuckled. "Great. Nice to be the only ignorant one."

"Most people actually can't smell cyanide in relatively small amounts," Charlie said. "The ability to do so appears to be genetic."

"So we still don't know if they knew what they were doing."

"What do you know about the Hunt Club?"

Don had turned in his seat and impaled Sam with the question abruptly. Sam, clearly startled, said nothing.

"Bunch of people in those stupid-lookin' riding pants?" Dean asked.

"It's OK, Dean, this is no time to stonewall," Sam said. "The Hunt Club is a secret society. As members, we all pledge to do anything we can for each other. That's why we want to talk to this girl, see if there's anything she needs the group to do for her."

"A secret society?" Don was dubious.

"Yeah, you know, like Skull and Bones at Yale. Except we have women members."

"And nothing to do with any college," Dean said.

Sam merely rolled his eyes and looked out the window, but Don was glad there wasn't a cell phone handy.

"Anyway, the hospital says it's OK for Charlie to come in and talk to her. Charlie, if you get anything concrete from her, Detective Alvarez wants to hear it."

"You must have some major connections with the Pasadena PD," Dean said admiringly.

"Relations between the federal and local levels aren't always as bad as they show them on TV."

"Don's a Special Agent with the FBI regional office in Albuquerque," Charlie said, pride in every syllable.

"Really? What kind of things do you handle most there?"

They were still discussing it when they got off the elevator. Once or twice Don tried to turn the conversation to what Dean did for a living, but found himself skillfully deflected.

How it was that the staff allowed all four of them to crowd into Pam Villiers' small, although private, room, Don didn't know. Dean held a murmured conversation with a nurse as Don and Charlie stepped into the room, and seconds later Sam and Dean walked in behind them.

There was only one chair in the room. Charlie sat down by Pam's bedside, studying her anxiously. She was sleeping, but not well; her eyelids fluttered, her fingers twitched a little. Don stood behind Charlie's chair, Sam and Dean on either side of him.

With a sharp little intake of breath, she woke up. The first face she saw was Charlie's, and her smile banished any thought, at least from Don's mind, that Charlie's classroom had been chosen because she hated him. "Dr. Eppes!" Her voice was weak, high, sweet.

"Pam." It was all Charlie could manage, as though all of his questions merged into the syllable, and tears filled her eyes. Then she looked up at the other three.

"Hi, Pam, I'm Charlie's brother, Don."

"I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean."

Her eyes widened, and the tears rolled down a face that was no longer sad, but surprised. "Winchester? Dean? And Sam?" Her gaze flicked between the two sets of brothers. "Do you – know – "

"We just met Professor Eppes today," Sam said easily. "We asked him if we could come along to talk to you. I have to confess, Pam, we did tell him a little about the Hunt Club."

"You told him – "

"Just that it was a secret society, not some kind of crazy cult. That we try to help each other out when we can, and that's why we wanted to come here and talk to you. But we didn't tell him the secret handshake, or anything."

She actually laughed, brokenly. "Well, that's good."

"Pam?" It was as though Charlie hadn't heard anything else. "What happened?"

And Don was damned if Pam didn't look up at Sam and Dean, as though she were looking for a cue from them. "I just – I don't – "

"The police know that Jon Wendell bought poison," Sam said.

His own damn fault, Don realized. If he hadn't been so intent on helping his brother by giving Charlie the facts he craved, he'd never have talked about police information in front of other people. He couldn't blame Sam. But he shot Sam a killing look, just to make sure it didn't happen again.

"Maybe so," Pam said. "but I'll never – that wasn't Jon. It just wasn't."

Dean nodded, very slightly.

"What – why were you there?" Charlie asked.

"We were having a meeting. Going to do – one of the secret society rituals."

Don took a chance that he was 95 percent sure would work. In a quietly joking tone, he said, "And I suppose you picked Charlie's classroom because the class makes you so nuts that you figured the room ought to be good for _something_."

"No. Just the opposite. Oh!" She looked at Charlie, stunned. "You didn't think that, did you? Oh." Her mind was racing faster than Don figured his own would, under the circumstances. "You thought we were all going to – going to kill ourselves in that room because – because of you or the class or something?"

"Both you and Manuel were involved. I just couldn't help but think – "

"No. No. It was because we both liked it there. It was an important ritual for us, we wanted it in a safe, a good place. Carol and Hugh and Jon, they weren't even CalSci students. And Manuel would never – he thinks you're – he thought the world of you."

"Manuel was very bright," Charlie said softly. "He was going to be – "

There was a moment's silence.

"Was the wine part of the ritual?" Don asked quietly.

"No. Jon." She stopped dead, started up again as though she had to force herself to speak the words. "Jon brought it in specially, for a toast." She shifted her gaze to Sam, then looked back at Don as she continued, "Another, another member of the club died a few weeks ago. Cal Carson. He was a roofer, and he fell. Jon couldn't get over it. He was so angry. And I think his rage was so intense, it made him vulnerable to – "

She hesitated, and Sam said, "His inner demons."

She nodded. "Jon wanted to drink a toast to Cal. I noticed that the seal wasn't on the bottle, and I was kind of surprised that he didn't buy a brand new bottle for the occasion." Her voice choked off and she closed her eyes. She looked exhausted.

"What time does your mom get here?" Don asked.

"About nine o'clock."

"Does she need anyone to pick her up at the airport?"

"No. Thank you. She's got it all arranged." Pam smiled a little. "She's been calling my cell phone like every 15 minutes."

"Can we do anything for you, Pam?" Dean asked.

"There's something – If you could do it, it would, it would be a lifesaver. But I don't know if anyone can."

Dean jerked his head a little. "Hit us."

She looked at him as though only he could understand what she was saying. "I lost something a few weeks ago, and it would make me feel so much better if I could get it back. But it may be broken or in another state by now."

"What is it?" It was Charlie who asked, to Don's surprise.

"A ceramic jar, a ginger jar, about this high." She held out her hands about a foot apart. "You know, that kind that's rounded on the top and the neck narrows down, and it's got a lid with a button on top. It's brown, and it has some symbols running down the sides." She laughed, a little painfully, and extended her hand to Charlie in an almost flirtatious manner. "You'll like this, Professor. It's like what you call 'a stubborn resistance to reason.' There's a story that you can trap a particular demon in it. Not any old demon, you know – just this one specific one. Summon him, say a few words in Latin, he's pulled in there, and once the lid is on he's sealed in. Presto!" She laughed again.

"And that's what you want more than anything?" Charlie said quietly, wonderingly.

"Well, not for trapping demons, of course." She laughed her breathless laugh a third time. "It has a lot of sentimental value for me. Cal gave it to me, just about a week before he died, and it meant a lot to me. And then last month my apartment was burglarized, and the assholes – excuse me, Professor – they stole it."

Sam chuckled. (Lotta hilarity in this room all of a sudden, Don thought.) "You'd think that whoever made it would've put all kinds of charms on it to protect it."

"They probably did, from demons. But asshole – excuse me – human burglars, apparently not. They took my TV and my laptop, some of my jewelry, a necklace my mom gave me with my initials and a little diamond. I don't know why they took the jar. It has a little brass trim around the base and the neck, maybe they thought it was gold, I don't know. We were – I've been doing everything I can to get it back. I've been calling the police department, but they just don't care."

"Well," Don said, "they probably care, but they're probably up to their necks."

"I suppose so. In that case, I kind of know how they feel." She looked up at Don. "Your brother probably told you, I'm not exactly his star student. I don't know how I earned the right to be in his class in the first place."

"You earned it because your work merited it," Charlie said. "Because you have to work harder in my class than in your other classes doesn't mean you're not a very good student. It's good students who challenge themselves. And you know my door is always open."

"I know. Thank you."

"Well, said Dean, "if we're going to find that jar, we'd better start rattling cages."

Sam said, "Pam, if it can be found, we'll find it."

The Winchesters were moving toward the door, and Don followed. "Pam, you take care of yourself."

Charlie stood, looking down at the girl. "I'm so sorry."

Her eyes teared up again at the gentleness in his voice. "Not your fault."

"No. I'm just sorry that it happened. Do you have someone to give you notes from the class?"

"Yes. And actually, they say I should be getting out of here pretty soon."

"I hope so. Well. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Professor Eppes. Thank you for coming."

Don waited until the four were several yards down the hall to give a low laugh. "Oh, boy, did you misread that situation."

"Which situation?" Charlie looked a little offended.

"She might be struggling in your class, but she'd rather be struggling in your class than acing anyone else's. Major crush on you, buddy."

"I haven't – I'll take your word for it."

Dean chuckled. "I'm not sure I could handle in the ethics in your place. Good thing I'm not a genius professor."

"Not that there was ever really any danger – " Sam began.

" – Yeah, yeah – " Dean was grinning.

Sam slapped his jacket pocket. "Man, I think I dropped my wallet back there. I'll be back in just a minute," and he rushed down the hallway.

Charlie turned to Dean and, again surprising Don, asked, "How can we find that jar?"


	4. Chapter 4

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc. _

Dean hesitated. "I have no idea. But you guys have done more than your share. Don, you got us all that information, and Professor, I think you upgraded her condition just by turning up. I'll take you on back to the party and pick up our dad, and we'll get out of your hair."

"I would really like to be part of this," Charlie said quietly.

Don laughed. "Give it up now, Dean. I know that tone. What he means is, he's part of this no matter what."

"This could take days. Don't you have classes tomorrow?"

"I have friends who can cover for me."

"Don't you have to be at work on Monday?" Don asked Dean bluntly.

"I can get some kind of handyman job anywhere. Or work in a garage. You might've figured out, Dad and I aren't the type to punch a timeclock."

"And I'm on vacation, so we're set."

"You're sure this is how you want to spend your vacation?"

"What, looking for a secret society's magic jar? Absolutely." Don grinned right into Dean's face, and after a moment Dean returned the smile.

"Good news, Sam," he said. Don turned; Sam was walking up behind them. "The Eppes brothers have nothing better to do than help us look for the jar."

"Great. Except where are we going to put Dad? The trunk?"

Dean snickered. "I'll give him a call, see what he wants to do."

As Dean placed the call, Don asked, "Did you find your wallet?"

Sam looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah. I had it in my pants pocket."

Don nodded slowly. Sam didn't look like the type who lied easily, but maybe he was. He certainly didn't expect other people to be especially observant. Before he had gone back to Pam's room, Sam had been wearing a thin black cord around his neck; the pendant presumably hanging from it was underneath his worn T-shirt. The cord was gone now.

"Hey Dad. We saw Charlie's student, and we're running an errand now. Give us a call if you need a lift." Dean clicked the phone shut and looked at Sam. "Cell phone's on voicemail. He's probably gone to see that old friend of his. I'll tell you about that later."

"Uh, we have the car," Don said.

"Dad's pretty self-sufficient. And his truck's back at the motel."

"There's a bus stop six blocks from the house," Charlie said as they started again down the hall. "The schedule's reduced on Saturday, but – " he looked at a clock on the wall as they passed – "yes, a bus to downtown left ten minutes ago. You can get almost anywhere from there."

"Now that's genius, when you have the bus schedule memorized," Sam said with a chuckle.

"It's the way that I get around, that and walking. I don't drive."

Dean stopped dead, the others going a step or two farther before they realized it. He was looking at Charlie as though Charlie had just announced that he didn't eat. "You. Don't. Drive?"

Charlie looked startled. "Um, no."

Sam said, "Come on, Dean, not everybody – "

"It's not as though driving is necessary to sustain life."

Don laughed. "I think Dean disagrees with you, buddy. Actually, I'm not sure I agree with you."

Dean shook his head a little and moved forward. "OK. Well. First thing, we need to find a gas station, the car's a little low. We can decide what to do next from there."

"Sounds good to me," Don said, and pushed the elevator button. Remarkably, a pair of doors slid open immediately.

They all got on, and Don pushed the button for ground level. As the doors slid shut, Dean again gave Charlie that look. "Seriously. You really don't drive?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

At the gas station, Dean said he was going inside to get a snack, Sam said he'd do the same, Don said he'd hit the head, and Charlie, with a certain emphasis, announced that he could and would pump the gas. As he headed around to the side of the building where the restroom signs were, Don grinned. He actually doubted whether Charlie had ever pumped gas in his life, but the guy was a genius; he'd figure it out.

Standing by the outside wall, Don made his own phone call. "Dad? How's the party going?"

"It's going fine. Your mother wonders where you two are."

"We just left the hospital. Charlie's student's OK, she didn't try to kill herself, so Charlie feels better. She belonged to some kind of secret club and one of their members went over the edge, killed himself and tried to kill everyone else."

"Great club."

"Yeah. Is John Winchester still there?"

"No, he left on foot awhile ago. I offered to give him a lift, but he said he liked to walk."

"What do you make of him?" If there was anyone whose judgment about other people Don trusted more than his own, it was his father's.

"He's polite. Rough around the edges. We talked for about fifteen minutes and afterward I realized that all I really know about him is that he used to be a Marine."

"Interesting."

"You know, someone like that – ex-military, doesn't talk about his family or his work – normally I'd have red flags running up. But I don't. Obviously there's something he's not talking about, but I don't think he's – "

Alan hesitated, and Don filled in, " – a danger to society. Right. I'm getting the same vibe from Dean. But there's something weird about this whole setup, you know? The Winchesters are supposedly members of this same secret club, and the girl actually seemed to recognize their names. But if something like this happened at, oh, a Masonic lodge, would a father-and-son team of Masons come rushing into town the next day?"

"Well – actually, we don't know, do we?"

"Good point. The girl asked us – supposedly us, I think was really more the Winchesters – to find something that was stolen from her. The Winchesters want to start looking yesterday, Charlie insists on going along, and I think I'll just be a barnacle for a while."

"You don't think Charlie could get in any trouble, do you?"

"Nah. I don't think anyone will. Although I suppose it's possible. Maybe it's just weird. Maybe it's just more interesting than listening to Mrs. Levinson talk about meeting Al Gore for the fourth time."

"Don't let your mother hear you say that. You give me a call if you need anything. Do you have your gun?"

"Dad, I was at a family party. No, I'm not armed. But believe me, if I thought this was going to turn into anything that needed a weapon, I'd have Charlie home before – before even he could count to ten."

"All right. Keep me posted."

"'Bye."

Don called Detective Alvarez and filled him in on the details they'd learned from Pam. As he started for the front of the gas station, just before he rounded the corner, he heard Dean's voice saying, " – going after hunters with a vengeance."

Instinctively, Don backed up a step. There was a full, two-tier rack of tires next to the station's front door. Dean and Sam were standing next to it, and by standing still on the other side, Don was pretty sure he could overhear them without their noticing that he was there.

"But I'm not a hunter anymore, Dean," Sam said.

"And you figure, what, that every living being in the cosmos knows this?"

There was a moment of silence, then Sam said, "So that's really what this is all about, Dad was worried. This has nothing to do with talking me into dropping out of college and rejoining the family business."

"You know, Sammy, as far as I'm concerned you can do anything you want." Then in a less edged tone, "I've got to say though, we miss you. You are good. 'Secret society!'" Dean chuckled.

"The sad part is, I have the feeling that's the way they thought about it. Excitement! Adventure! Anonymous good deeds!"

"Amateur night!" Dean said in the same tone. "Geez."

A bell clanked as the station's door opened and Don heard Charlie. "Filled up and paid for. My treat. Where's Don?"

By this time, Don had begun rounding the rack of tires. "Are we all ready?"

"If you are."

"So," Don said cheerfully once they were back in the car, "how do we start finding the magic jar?"

"Well, to begin with we stop referring to it as 'the magic jar,'" Dean said.

"Do you know of any fences in this area?" Charlie asked Don.

"They wouldn't fence something like that. The TV, the laptop – maybe. But more likely they're selling the stuff to friends of friends or passing it off at swap meets or pawnbrokers. Especially for a ceramic jar – a fence takes such a huge cut, it wouldn't be worth it."

"Why do you suppose they took it?" Charlie asked.

"Probably Pam was right, they thought it was more valuable than it is. Or maybe they're going to say the magic words and suck a demon into it."

"You know, Don, I'm a little surprised at you," Sam said. "You're in law enforcement. Are you telling me you've never been in the presence of evil?"

"Well – I mean, yeah, I've seen some things. But I've gotta tell you, ninety-nine percent of the guys we go after are just people who are stupid and greedy in various proportions."

"And the other one percent?"

"The other one percent, I don't worry about whether they're chemically imbalanced or demonic or what the problem is. The important job is getting them someplace where they won't be hurting anyone else. After that, I'll let the religious folks and the psychiatrists argue over them. What I do know is, they're not running around on cloven hooves."

"Well, I think evil operates as a force in the universe," Sam said. "People can fight it or cave into it. Sometimes it preys on them. And yeah, most people who go wrong are just greedy. Greed is a normal human thing, they're just headed toward one end of the human spectrum. But someone who would kill a bunch of other people and himself – some sadistic bastard who enjoys torturing people – that's not even on the spectrum of normal humanity."

"Of course it is," Charlie said. "It's the extreme end, but we're not talking about one-time occurrences here. There's enough mass murder and sadism among most sizeable populations that you could plot it on any bell curve of human behavior. Once we better understand the chemistry of the human brain, we'll be able to diagnose and treat the pathology that causes the behavior, and we won't need myths and fairy-tale monsters to explain it."

"Just dose us with enough of the right stuff and we'll all be good, huh?" Dean asked.

"And I presume that when you go home tonight you'll be reading your sheepskin scrolls by candlelight?"

Dean laughed. "Don't get me wrong, Professor, I've got nothing against science." He patted the steering wheel. "Science brought me my baby here. But I figure there's a reason why human beings are the only ones who are aware of evil and the only ones who fight it. If we don't know that and we don't work against it, what are we? Monkeys. Or nicely working little cogs. It's the fight that makes us. And it doesn't matter whether we fight evil in ourselves or fight it outside. Without the fight, we're not human."

There was a moment's pause.

"Well. Glad we settled that," Sam said, and they all laughed. "Meantime, about the jar. Don, you thought maybe pawn shops or swap meets?"

"Given our resources, that's our best bet."

"Well, the PCC Flea Market is today," Sam said. "It's still on for another couple of hours, and it's big enough that we can all four work it. After that's over, we can split up and hit pawnshops."

"Sound good to everyone?" Dean started the car. "Where do I go?"

It was pretty clear where the Flea Market was, once you got near PCC; a huge parking lot crowded with cars and people, and circled by traffic looking for a parking space. Dean finagled a space a block away, and they discussed who would search each area as they walked.

"We'll call each other if we spot the jar," Dean said. "Do we all have cell phones?"

He was looking directly at Charlie; fortunately, Charlie had one. They exchanged numbers.

"And Don," Dean continued, "if we find – I respect the law, I do. But if we find the jar, it goes straight to Pam. No calling the cops, it's evidence in a crime, it sits in some police storeroom for six months. We see it, we buy it and deliver. Right?"

Don actually hesitated before he remembered the odds against its happening and laughed. "Dean, if we walk into that flea market and that jar is sitting there, I'll deliver it to Pam today myself."

Actually, he thought as he walked his own section, this _was_ a lot more interesting than listening to Mrs. Levinson's Al Gore saga. The afternoon was sunny and warm. SUVs and trucks and a few cars lined up side by side, the back ends opened to show merchandise, the owners sitting on a stool or standing behind a folding table that displayed more wares.

He discovered that, at least in his section, there were almost no dealers in housewares specifically. But that didn't mean there weren't enough jars and jar-like objects to keep him on his toes. At handicrafts booths there were vases; at antiques booths there were everything from cigarette caddies to umbrella stands; a lamp dealer had wired up nine different receptacles, by Don's count; a lady at a booth selling sheet music and small instruments was collecting coins for a charity in a terra cotta jar.

It worked best if he focused his visual attention sharply and just let the sounds of the place wash over him in a diffuse, unfocused way. "Well – how much are you asking?" " . . . kind of intriguing, check him out on AskART, would you?"; dogs owned by two shoppers trying to out-bark each other; "Well – how much do you want for it?"; a lecture by a guy dressed in black on the superiority of New Mexican art glass, delivered to a tolerant-looking crafts dealer; laughing girls rustling through racks of vintage clothing; ""Well – how much are you asking?" At one point he raised his eyes enough from table level to see Sam peering behind a couple of chimineas in the back of a truck; at another point he saw Dean, the leather jacket a triumph of style over practicality in this warmth, eating a tamale while he chatted up the pretty girl who'd sold it to him.

A few times Don asked a dealer if they had seen a jar matching Pam's description, hoping it might surface from a trunk or a back seat, but it never did. Just after he'd tried that a third time, his cell phone rang. "Don Eppes."

Charlie was speaking quietly. "What do you suppose Pam Villiers' middle initial is?"

"I don't know. Why – Whoa. Where are you?"


	5. Chapter 5

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc. _

He was at a booth that specialized in movie memorabilia. A rubber dagger lay atop a photo showing it being used in a thriller. Boxes of photos with alphabetized index cards sat on the table, a nearby folding chair, the ground. A feather boa was draped over a hanger that displayed a photo of an actress wearing it in a comedy.

And sitting on a table, in a small locked acrylic case, were a few pieces of jewelry. The one Charlie was looking at was a silver chain with a pendant like Pam had described – a small diamond in the center of three sterling silver letters, "POV."

"It stands for 'point of view' in screenplays," the merchant told them. She was a pretty woman with startlingly fair skin and quick, intelligent eyes. "This wasn't used in a movie. If you're looking for movie costume jewelry specifically, I have other items that I can show you. But the diamond in the middle of the O is real, a quarter-carat, so it would be a lovely gift for a woman who's a screenwriter or a cinematographer or a director."

"Where did you get it?" Charlie asked bluntly.

She smiled. "I have various suppliers, but I'm pretty sure that this is a one-of-a-kind piece."

"Oh, yeah, it's not like we think we can get it someplace else for less," Don said. "We're just curious about this one item."

"In fact," Charlie was digging in his wallet, "how much does it cost?"

She looked almost more disconcerted than when they'd asked her supplier's name, and Don thought he should have warned Charlie to ask how much she wanted in an unenthusiastic tone. "Oh, two-twenty-five."

"Will you take two hundred?" Don asked, just so they'd sound like real customers.

"Um – two-ten?"

"Have you got that?" Don asked, and Charlie nodded, counting the money out with quick deft fingers. He could tell that she was curious about why he was doing the negotiating and Charlie the paying, hoped a little wickedly that she'd come to the conclusion that Charlie wasn't too bright.

"So," Don said genially, "the great mystery can now be revealed?"

"The great – oh." She smiled. As she spoke she removed the necklace from the case, wrapped it in a piece of tissue paper and put it in a little white box. "I got it at this same flea market, in fact, last month, from one of the other dealers. We're part of the flashlight crowd," she laughed, "dealers who come in at five a.m. and set up and buy from each other before the customers get here."

"So the other dealer carries a lot of jewelry?"

"No, as a matter of fact, he mostly deals in DVDs and small electronics. He'd got this on impulse at an estate sale, but he was having a hard time moving it, with his clientele. He suggested that my clientele might be more interested."

(-- Well, at least we know he's not dumb enough to display a stolen two-hundred-dollar necklace at his own booth, but how about less recognizable stuff?) "I love getting movies on sale. Is the guy here today, do you know?"

"I think – yes, I did see him," she pointed, "over in that area. His name's Mark, he's got a white van. Oh, and he's wearing a bright red T-shirt today."

"Got it. Thanks."

"Thank you!"

"OK, Charlie," Don inquired as they moved away, "since when did you start carrying more than three bucks on you?"

"I got some money at the ATM at the gas station. I had the feeling we might need it."

"You're working awfully hard to get this girl's stuff back to her. Are you sure there's not a little – "

Charlie stopped, Don turned. Charlie was studying his brother's face as if it were a chalkboard. "You're asking if her feelings are reciprocated."

"Well, yeah."

"No. But she's made me think, and I'm grateful for that."

"Think about what?"

"Hey there." It was Sam Winchester. "I've got zero. You guys?"

"We've got more than zero," Charlie said.

They explained quickly, and Sam nodded. "Red T-shirt, white van, right. That guy was in my section. He doesn't have anything ceramic, but I remember thinking that he looked kind of weaselly."

"No ceramics, that's going to make it difficult to ask about." They were walking slowly as Don spoke, following Sam's lead. "We can't very well walk up to him and say, 'Hi! Got any stolen housewares to go with your stolen movies?'"

"Well, not here, anyway. If we can get him away from the crowd – "

"What, we can beat it out of him?"

"What do I look like? There he is."

They stopped a couple of stands away, and Sam turned to study a display of candles. Don and Charlie felt free to look the guy over – he was busy touting the virtues of a boom-box to a kid in a Nirvana T-shirt. Mark was skinny, dark haired, and did have a weaselesque appearance.

Sam was on the phone. "Dean? There's a guy here who doesn't have the jar, but he has something to do with the burglary at Pam's. We'll flush him; you get the car and be ready to follow him."

Unceremoniously, he snapped the phone shut. "Charlie, you look oblivious. Circle around that van, get whatever you can of the make and model, look over the front license plate. Then call Dean and tell him what to look for. And tell him to come back here and pick us up when he finds out where the guy goes. We want to be in on the fun. OK?"

Charlie nodded and, as casually as possible, began threading his way between shoppers and then between vehicles.

"Well," Don said. "You've done this before."

"Once or twice." Sam, all business, was heading for a spot directly in front of their target and several yards away. "Do you have your badge with you?"

"Well, yes."

"Show it to me."

"I don't think so."

Sam gave Don the exact same eye-roll he'd given Dean in the car. "I'm not saying give it to me. I'm saying show it to me."

Don started to grin, quelled it. "OK, I got you."

Mark's customer had left. Sam looked directly over at Mark as Don got his badge out and opened it. Sam looked down at the badge, then looked over at the dealer, who was staring at them and trying not to.

"Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow," Sam said. He looked back at Don. "And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go."

"It followed her to school one day, which was against the rule." Don pocketed his badge and cast a quick glance at Mark, who was loading merchandise in his van double-time.

Sam nodded. He was pretending to avoid looking at the dealer. "It made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school."

Don squinted his eyes, looking over at the scrambling suspect. "And you're absolutely sure that was the guy."

"Oh. Absolutely."

There were metallic claps as Mark collapsed the legs of his card table. Sam gave Don the tiniest of smiles. "Guilt is a wonderful thing."

"You said it."

"OK, I'm going to fade away. Pretend to call in the cavalry and turn your back while you're doing it. I'll meet you and Charlie by the mirror pool out front."

Sam walked quickly away. Don opened his cell phone, turned, pretended to press a few buttons, held it to his ear. He heard van doors closing behind him, and a moment later an engine firing up. When he turned the van was gone and he could see Charlie in the aisle across from him, looking oblivious.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

A little more than forty-five minutes later the four of them were sitting in the Impala looking at a rundown house in a rundown neighborhood.

"Well, that was the house he drove to, but the van's not there," Dean said.

"So he left again?"

"Or the van belonged to someone else who took it back, and our buddy Mark is still in the house."

"We don't know enough about what's inside to break in," Sam said.

Don turned his head and looked levelly at Sam. "Not to mention that breaking in would be illegal."

"Of course. I was joking."

"OK," Dean said, "I'll just see who's home and tell them Mark told me I could get some good deals from him."

"And if it's Mark who answers the door?"

"I'll tell him that a friend of mine told me to talk to him."

"Will you even recognize if it is Mark?" Charlie asked.

"Sure, I saw him get out of the van and go into this house. Skinny guy, dark hair, kind of weaselly looking."

"I'll go in with you," Sam said, and started opening the door.

"Sit tight, Sam," Don said. "Dean, I'm going in with you."

"He thinks you're a cop," Sam protested at the same moment that Dean said, "I don't need anyone to go in with me."

"Maybe not," Don said. "But if you come out holding that jar, I'd like to know that someone let you in and someone handed it to you."

"I said I was joking!" Sam exclaimed.

"I heard you."

"If that's your concern, I could go in with him," Charlie said.

"Hey, great idea! I avoid being an accomplice to burglary and get killed by my own mother on the same day! No. Dean, unless your idea of fun is doing time for assaulting a federal agent, you've got a partner."

"OK, everyone cool down," Dean said. "First off, the damn thing's probably not even in there. If we're lucky we'll get a lead that sends us to another lead. Second, Don, my brother and I are not professional crooks, and by the way thanks for the implication. Third, fine, if you insist, go with me. But kind of hang away from the door, would you? In case Mark answers, I don't want him screaming and slamming the door shut the moment he sees you."

"That's fair."

So, as Dean rang the doorbell, Don leaned casually against the front of the house, out of the direct line of sight of the door. Since the blinds on all the front windows were closed, that would be adequate to keep someone from seeing Don immediately.

The door was opened by a guy as fat as Mark was skinny, and whose skin looked like he hadn't been outdoors in months. "Yeah?"

"Is Mark here?" Dean asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"'Who wants to know?' Crap. A guy told me that if I had cash I could get a good deal on a TV from Mark. He didn't tell me it was CIA headquarters." Dean turned and took the first step down from the porch.

"Hey, wait," the guy said.

Dean stopped and turned.

"Yeah, you got the right place. Come on in."

And in this particular case, Don thought as he followed Dean inside, sixty percent stupidity, forty percent greed.

Inside the small dark front room, a large TV was playing an action movie at top volume, cars chasing and slamming into each other, more gunfire than in any given battle of World War I. Stacked on the floor and on almost every piece of furniture were televisions, DVD players, computers, speakers, boxes of DVDs, and empty beer cans. Their host stood before a bookcase heaped with magazines, crumpled fast-food sacks, and even more merchandise.

Dean squinted at the row of buttons on the TV set and pressed the Volume control with his knuckle, bringing the apocalypse down to a whisper.

"Take a look around," their host said. "What you see is what we got."

Dean looked around, bent slightly to examine a large TV sitting at an angle on a lumpy couch. "Nice. How much?"

"Five hundred."

"You kidding? I could get it for that at Walmart."

"You could not. Four-fifty."

"There's another thing," Dean said, looking over the TV sitting next to it. "I'm looking for a present for my girlfriend. Have you got anything like a jar or canister, preferably with a lid? Brown would be best, match her kitchen."

A toilet flushed down the hall, and Don shifted his stance a bit so he could watch both the hallway and Dean.

The fat guy's eyes were narrowed in suspicion. "That's awfully specific."

Dean gave him that hard-eyed grin. "Yes. It is. I'm willing to pay specific money for it. Have you seen anything like that?"

And Mark appeared from the hallway in the living room entrance. "Todd, what the hell is he doing here? He's a cop!"


	6. Chapter 6

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc. _

Todd turned and raised his hand, but by the time he'd reached between two stacks of magazines Don was slamming into him in a flying tackle, and by the time Don had made impact Dean's hand had flashed to the back of his waistband and up again, holding an automatic.

With a crash, Don and Todd went into a pile of DVDs and Todd yelled.

Dean aimed the gun at Mark. "You want to play it that way? We can."

Don rolled Todd over, checking that he hadn't somehow armed himself, and stood with his foot on Todd's back. Mark was adequately petrified by Dean's firearm. Don looked into the bookcase where Todd had been reaching. Then, from the recess between the two stacks of magazines, he pulled another automatic.

The sheer idiocy of it irritated him. "What, you thought we were cops and you were going to shoot us? Over a bunch of hot TVs? Do you have any idea how stupid that is?"

"Wasn't gonna shoot you," Todd mumbled, still face down in the DVDs.

"Well, if you're not cops, what do you want?" Mark sounded half-hysterical.

Don was frankly in the mood to say he wanted nothing to do with any of it and walk out the door. Dean, however, said calmly, "I was just explaining that to your friend when you two lost your minds. You can sit up, there, just don't do anything stupid. A brown jar with symbols on it. It has brass trim and a lid with a knob on top. You two stole it. You either have it or you know where it went. That's what I want."

"Why?" Mark asked.

"Target practice."

"Just give it to him, man!" Todd wailed.

Mark started out another living room doorway.

"Whoa," Dean said. "Slowly."

He met Don's eyes to be sure Don was covering Todd, and followed Mark to the doorway. A moment later Mark returned, holding the jar very very carefully.

Don would have actually called it tan rather than brown. The symbols had been impressed in the clay when it was wet, and painted red and black afterward. It was a little weird, but quite a nice looking piece. And the thought that he could have been killed for it made Don so angry he could hardly see straight.

Dean, however, looked like he'd just seen the treasure of the Sierra Madre. "That's great," he half-whispered with no hint of sarcasm. He circled the jar with his left arm, looking the symbols over as if they were a language he could read.

Then he re-focused on the others. "OK! Mark, you want to open the door for us? Just leave it standing open, that's good. Now, sit beside your buddy on the floor there, both of you cross legged. Just do the best you can, Todd. Put your hands on the wall." With a bob of his head he indicated that Don should precede him, and, jamming the criminal geniuses' gun into his waistband and letting his shirt drop over it, Don did so. Dean continued, "Count to fifty before you stand up, would you? Thanks. Have a nice day."

When Sam saw them crossing the small lawn rapidly, he got out of the car and took the jar from Dean, noted the gun that Dean hastily put away, and leaped back into the car cradling the jar. Don got into the car and slammed the door so hard that the window rattled. Dean shot a glance at the house's open doorway as he started the engine, and while he didn't speed, he lost no time getting out of the neighborhood.

For a couple of minutes they drove in silence. Don, simmering, nevertheless was asking himself: What could have been done differently? Not accompany Dean into the house? He didn't know the Winchesters; despite their protestations, maybe Dean was the type who wouldn't balk at breaking and entering, and he really didn't want to have to explain being an accomplice. Not go into the house at all, just grab the nearest bus with Charlie, who would know the nearest bus? Maybe that would have been smartest, but he would have hated to simply walk away from what might be a depot for stolen property, and calling the police would have been out of the question: "This gal at this flea market had a necklace that we think was stolen and she said she got it from a guy who we followed home, but we haven't actually seen anything in there?" Oh yeah, any judge would issue a search warrant on that evidence. Not get involved in the whole thing to begin with? Maybe, but who would have thought that an afternoon looking over stuff at a flea market could develop into an armed confrontation? Well, Don thought, maybe a really good FBI agent would have. He felt his anger settling, replaced by embarrassment. He really couldn't blame Dean. And given the situation they'd got themselves into, Dean had handled his firearm very well – no swagger, no shakiness. Actually –

"Don?" Charlie asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

It jolted the whole debate right out of his head.

In all their years of growing up together – childhood illnesses, teenage heartbreaks, anguish at some play he'd screwed up that had cost his team the game, the non-stop grinding his ego took watching his 11-year-old brother ace Advanced Placement classes while he himself struggled with intermediate algebra – in all those years, he could not once remember Charlie asking if he was all right. Or asking anyone, for that matter. If you flat out told Charlie that you were worried or angry, he'd be concerned and ask if there was anything he could do; if you were silent, it was like you vanished off his radar. Until now.

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, Charlie, I'm fine."

He looked over at Dean. "You've got a fast draw that would scare Wyatt Earp."

"Thanks."

"You do have a permit for that thing, right?"

"I have a permit for that thing. And training."

"From your father."

Dean sighed. "You know, Don, whatever you're thinking, I don't suppose I can blame you. When you're rootless, people think the worst of you. But my family – We don't hurt people. We kind of live off the land. We're not living at the Ritz, we're not working on Rodeo Drive. A lot of times we're on the road at night. Sometimes we're in situations where we need to know how to take care of ourselves."

-- And yet for some reason your brother wants to give all that up to study law and settle down? Hard to imagine, Don thought. But he didn't say it.

"If it makes you feel better," Dean continued, "that's the first time I've ever pulled a weapon on a human being."

Don would have sworn he heard a little choked sound of amusement from Sam, but when he looked back the kid's face was perfectly straight. Then the car swerved and he looked out the windshield again.

Dean had spotted an old convenience store with an old pay telephone at driver's-seat level out front. He pulled up to it, took a white cloth from his jacket pocket, picked up the receiver with the cloth over his hand and punched buttons with his knuckle.

His voice came out high-pitched and nasal. "Yeah, hi, uh, I was just at this house?" He gave the address. "A guy told me that I could get a good deal on a TV there and I thought maybe it was like the guy's own TV, used, but it's like a friggin' electronics boutique in there, all kinds of crap sittin' around, not in boxes, and I think it might be like stolen or something? So anyway, I thought maybe you'd want to know. – What'd you say? My cell phone's cuttin' – What's my name?" He hung up, looked at Don and shrugged. "Best I could do."

"I'll be damned," Sam said suddenly, and laughed.

Don and Dean both looked back. Sam had taken the lid off the jar and now extended the container to them. "Chocolate chip or oatmeal?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pam Villiers opened the small white box, her fingers shaking slightly, and unwrapped the tissue paper. When she first saw the silver flash of the pendant, she hesitated, as if she didn't want to believe it and be disappointed, but then she ripped off the rest of the paper and stared at her mother's gift with huge eyes.

Then she looked up at Charlie. "How?"

"It was a group effort," Charlie said.

"Yes, but how? You must have got it from someone. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," Charlie said.

"It's one of those stories better left untold," Don said.

She looked at it again, holding it up before her tearing eyes. "I thought I'd never see it again."

She unfastened the clasp, but her arms were too weak or too tired to fasten it at the back of her neck, and Sam stepped forward to help her. She was already wearing around her neck the black cord that Don had noticed Sam wearing earlier; the pendant was under her hospital gown, over which she'd pulled a peach-colored cardigan sweater.

"Thank you all," she said. "More than I can say. Whatever happens next, I'll always, always remember this. You're all – "

"Well actually, we know what happens next," Dean said. He'd come in behind the others, putting the jar on the floor by his feet. Now he picked it up and the other men stood aside as he stepped forward to give it to her.

She literally cried out, it startled Don. She grabbed the jar and wrapped her arms around it, cupping her hand over the lid, looking up at Dean as though he'd saved her life. "You found it! You found it!"

"Like Charlie said, it was a group effort."

Her gaze flicked to the Eppes brothers and back to Dean. "You know what this means."

"I do. It's a good thing to have, for a Hunt Club ceremony. But I'm wondering if it's a ceremony your particular chapter needs to be doing now."

She laughed harshly. "I _am_ our particular chapter now."

"And that's my point. I think you've – way overpaid your dues."

"'Scuse me, Charlie," Sam said. "Do you mind if I sit there?"

Charlie relinquished the chair to Sam, who sat beside the girl, looking into her eyes at a level.

"You know, Hunt Club's not right for everyone," he told her. "And not everyone's right for it. I quit it a few months ago."

Her jaw literally dropped. "_You_ did?"

The thought flashed into Don's mind: If Charlie told me he was bored with math, that's what I'd look like.

"You know how, how all-consuming it is. And I just decided, well, I'd rather have a life."

Tears welled in her eyes. She asked Sam as if there were no one else in the room: "How can you not hunt? When you know?"

Dean tilted his head and looked directly at Sam, but Sam didn't seem to notice.

"Because you also know there are a lot of other needs in the world," Sam said. "There are wounded people who need to be healed, listened to. There are bereaved people who need comfort. There's research to be done, messages to be communicated. Sometimes there's a valuable item to be found. Hunting isn't the only way to, you know, fight the good fight."

She nodded slowly. Don and Charlie exchanged a brief look.

As if it were difficult, she uncurled her arms from the jar, held it between her hands and extended it to Sam. With a little smile, he indicated his brother, and she offered it to Dean. "Thank you for finding this. It's a gift. From, from all the members of our chapter."

Dean took it. "I guarantee we'll make good use of it."

She wiped tears off her face, looked at Charlie and gave a little laugh. "Club stuff. It's silly. I've just been crying at anything."

"You may do that for awhile," Don said. "Has a Victim Services representative been in touch with you?"

"Yes. I kind of blew her off. Maybe I should give her a call."

"They can really help."

"Well," Sam began pulling his lanky frame up off of the chair, "we'd better let you get some rest before your mom gets here."

"Thank you all. I just – " Pam touched the sparkling "POV" pendant at her throat. "You'll never know."

She smiled at the Winchesters as they left. Charlie said, as if it were a homework assignment, "See you in class."

"You're the only one from the school who's come to see me. Everyone else – I suppose they're completely freaked out."

"Not necessarily," Don said. "They may think you're too sick to see anyone. Or that there's been a stampede to see you and you need some peace and quiet."

"Maybe. Personally, I'd be completely freaked out, if this had happened to someone else." She signed, and her gaze went across the room or somewhere inside herself. "But it didn't."

"You take care of yourself," Don said. "Be, you know, be careful. With your associations."

She looked up at him quickly, her lips parted as though a response had leaped to her mind. The she simply nodded. "I will."

When they went out into the hall the Winchesters weren't to be seen, presumably waiting by the elevators. After a few steps, Don stopped Charlie. "I started to ask you something at the flea market, and we got interrupted. You said you were grateful to Pam for making you think. I don't want to be pushy, but I'm just curious about what."


	7. Chapter 7

_The television show "Numb3rs," including the characters Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Alan Eppes, and Margaret Eppes, is copyrighted by CBS Paramount Network Television and Scott Free Productions. The television show "Supernatural," including the characters Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and John Winchester, is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

Charlie paused for a moment. "I had two students, one of them exceptionally able in a class I teach, the other of whom talked to me in my office several times. And I never had any idea that both of them had a bizarre outlook on the world, or connections so extreme that their lives would be endangered. I've never been – not just as horrified, but as – completely taken by surprise, as I was this morning."

"Well, but you can't blame yourself for that," Don said. "I've talked to plenty of family members, co-workers, friends of perpetrators, and you'd be surprised how many never saw it coming. Of course, some of them did, and some of them were just in denial, but sometimes there really isn't any way to predict."

"You're trying to spare my feelings. I appreciate it. But you and I both know that those kids might have been giving me every signal in the world that there was something wrong, and I probably wouldn't have noticed."

Don was silent.

"It may be a weakness of mine," Charlie continued, "that I usually find my work to be far more absorbing than the people around me. I watch you when you read people's faces, say something that was obviously the right thing at the right time, have a hunch that something's off-kilter. And I've always said to myself, well, we all have different strengths."

"Exactly."

"But maybe this is a weakness I need to work on. The way that some people need to work in the classroom. I'm going to be better about this, Don. It's – appalling that it took the deaths of four people to make me see it. But maybe those of us who aren't so good at – making human connections, maybe we need to work on that. Maybe we all need to look out for each other a little."

"You sound like Sam Winchester."

"Hm," Charlie said grimly, and headed down the hall.

Don followed, bemused. Professor Charles Eppes befriending people? Trying to understand what makes them tick? In a way, it sounded funny. But he knew what happened when Charlie announced that he intended to work on something. And he had seen Charlie connect with people before, although it was usually only other mathematicians. If he were to turn that insight and enthusiasm loose on society as a whole – well, you had to grin at the possibilities.

When the Eppes brothers got to the elevator, the Winchester brothers were standing there, having a quiet but intense discussion of their own.

" – I'm avoiding talking to him," Sam was saying. "I just have the feeling that if Dad and I go around one more time, he's going to say something unforgivable, or I will, and we won't talk to each other again for years, maybe ever."

"That's not gonna happen," Dean said patiently. "Just come by the motel and say goodbye before we leave. You don't even have to do the thing with us."

"What thing?" Charlie asked.

"Strip joints. Dad and I like to check 'em out every town we hit."

"Funny," Don said, because he actually thought it was. "Not quite as funny as saying a spell to trap a devil in a cookie jar, but pretty funny."

"I admit," Charlie said, and his gentle words belied the burn in his voice, "I don't understand the need in some people for magical thinking. But even given that you yourselves have that need, it is reckless to the point of negligence that you indulge a damaged girl's fantasies."

There was a moment's silence before Dean said, "You know, Professor, if that was trash talk, you suck at it."

"She has obviously heard of you or knows you from somewhere, trusts you. And instead of using that trust to encourage her to get the help she needs, you encourage her occult beliefs."

"Uh, were we in the same room?" Sam asked. "Because I remember suggesting that she – that she not be a Hunt Club member anymore."

"Which is not the same thing as telling her that the Hunt Club is delusional nonsense that almost got her killed."

"You know, it wouldn't hurt if you backed off," Sam said. "If I told you that calculus was delusional nonsense, you know what you'd say? 'How would you know, when you don't know a damn thing about it?'"

"Ah," Don said. "Can I field this one, Charlie?"

He looked at the Winchesters. "There is no such thing as the Hunt Club. If there was, it was Pam's group alone who called themselves that. But apparently there's some sort of network of people like you who consider themselves to be hunters – maybe hunters of demons, maybe hunters of evil generally. That was what Pam's group was into, and she honest to God believes that some sort of demonic force descended on Jon Wendell, or on her group generally, and killed everyone but her. She thought she was still in danger from it, so you – " he looked at Sam – "gave her some sort of pendant, I'd assume some sort of protective symbol." Looking at Dean, "You and your father heard about this mass murder and, for some reason, came to the conclusion that hunters in general were endangered. Maybe you'd also heard about that Carson guy who was mixed up with Pam's group and fell off a roof. I don't know, of course, if you really think Sam's in danger from some kind of supernatural being, but it was a good excuse to get him to join forces with you. Who knows, maybe your dad thinks a demon's responsible for Sam's wanting to go to college. Anyway, Pam told you about this jar, which she apparently thinks will trap the demon that's after her, and off we all went to find it. I suppose she was planning on doing the magic spell herself when you talked her out of it just now. I'm not sure why you did that. Maybe you realized that a role-playing game has gone too far when people get killed. Or maybe you actually think she would be in danger if she did the spell herself and, God help you, you're actually going to be standing by this jar at midnight, chanting and burning incense and hypnotizing yourselves into thinking that something's actually happening." He shrugged his shoulders. "So? Would you still say we don't know anything about it?"

A smile of admiration was on Dean's face. He was trying to hide it by turning his head, but he couldn't stop it.

"Well," said Sam. "Hard to know what to say. Except, my dad doesn't think a demon made me want to go to college. He thinks my priorities are screwed up, I think I should live my own life – really pretty typical stuff. Oh, and the whole jar thing. Dean told me that he tried to keep that a family project, but Charlie insisted on helping to look for it."

"I thought it was a gift from her dead friend that had sentimental value," Charlie said. "I didn't realize, until her reaction just now, how seriously she took that ridiculous demon story."

"So you were wanting to help her as much as – to the greatest extent of your understanding. Can't you give us enough credit to believe that we're doing the same? Even if our understanding is way different?"

Charlie looked a little started; then resistant; then he nodded his head. Don punched the elevator button, and they waited for it silently.

The ride back to the Eppeses' house was quiet until Dean pulled to the right to allow a police car, lights flashing and siren screaming, to speed by them.

"What do you think? Are they on their way to Mark and Todd's Discount Electronics Hacienda?" Dean asked.

Don laughed. "You know, it struck me about a half-hour ago: You only pulled a gun on them in self-defense, and the jar we took away, we gave back to the rightful owner. If a jury was listening to this whole story, I'm probably the only one they'd convict for any crime, taking away their gun."

"You're not thinking of returning it?" Sam asked.

"God, no. Turn it in to LAPD, maybe. Tell them I saw it in a trash can in Hollywood. Something like that."

"I hope – I mean, there won't be any bad effects for you? For your career?"

"Only if anyone finds out, which I don't think they will. Whether the police show up at the house or not, I doubt if Mark and Todd are going to complain to anyone about someone stealing their stolen cookie jar. And we didn't go in with the intention of taking it at gunpoint."

"Hell no," Dean said. "I was prepared to give them my credit card number and security code. This is it, right?"

He pulled into the Eppeses' driveway and put the car in park, but left the motor running. Charlie and Sam both got out.

"Are you going to stay in town for awhile?" Don asked Dean.

"Nah, we're off to Baja tomorrow."

"What's in Baja? -- Never mind. You be careful, Dean. The world can get a lot worse a lot faster than it did this afternoon."

Dean gave Don a strange smile. "I'll keep that in mind. I'll tell you, Don, if I ever needed someone other than my dad or Sam to watch my back, you're the guy I'd ask."

Don was more than a little surprised. "Well, thanks. Have a good trip."

When he got out of the car Sam was saying to Charlie, " – Joe's place?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'll see you there. Sweet roll and coffee to go."

"Yes. Or – or I may stay for breakfast sometimes, talk with you and Joe a little."

"That'd be great," Sam said. "You know, I didn't know you were family friends, but Joe's wondered a couple of times why you come in almost every day but you never hang out."

Don extended his hand. "Sam, it was good to meet you."

"Don, thanks so much for the invitation to the party. I'm really sorry we couldn't stay longer. Tell your mom – "

He hesitated, a wistful look making his face seem even younger than it was.

" – Tell your mom I had a great time, would you?"

"Sure will. You take care of yourself, Sam."

"You too."

Sam got into the front seat, and the gorgeous Impala pulled back.

"He seemed a little odd, with that message to Mom," Charlie said, watching the car drive away.

"The Winchesters' mother died when Sam was a baby."

"Oh." Charlie thought a moment. "Awful. I'm not even sure I could handle it now."

"Yeah. It's the way of the world, parents go before their kids, but it's never something you want to think about. And when the kids are little children – " Don shook his head.

"That explains their father."

"What, you think if Mom had died when we were little, Dad would've turned against higher education?"

"No. But I imagine he would have wanted to keep the remainder of his family together at all costs."

Don grinned at Charlie as they started for the front door. "You're pretty good at this connecting-with-people thing when you try."

"What was it Sam said, more than one way to fight the good fight?"

"And learning about people is going to be your way?"

"Well, I've got to do something. You're with the FBI. I'm never going to catch a menace to society by writing on a white board."

Don chuckled and held the door for his little brother.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the Pasadena Star-News, May 12, 2001:

Two mysterious twists were added to a mysterious crime yesterday when the victim and a motel owner both made statements to reporters.

Stephen Hostetler, 46, disappeared in the early morning hours of Sunday, May 6th, after making a run to a convenience store in his quiet residential neighborhood of Arcadia. His wife Elena found his car in the driveway of their home, the bag of groceries apparently untouched on the front seat.

Approximately 20 hours after Hostetler's disappearance, he was helped into the emergency room of Huntington Memorial Hospital by a man who told a nurse that he had found Hostetler nearby, wandering in the road and unable to speak. The man, described as an attractive white male in his early twenties who was wearing a leather jacket, left the hospital without giving any further information, and was seen by a witness getting into a long black car.

It was obvious, according to Dr. Nola Boyce of Huntington Memorial, that Hostetler had been through "some kind of ordeal." His blood pressure was spiking at dangerously high levels and he appeared to be afflicted with severe muscular pain or cramps. His inability to speak had apparently been caused by a caustic substance passing through his throat, although, according to Boyce, no trace of the substance was found elsewhere in his system.

It was unknown at the time whether the man who brought Hostetler to the hospital was in fact a Good Samaritan or was in any way connected with Hostetler's abduction and ordeal. When Pasadena police were finally able to interview Hostetler, using written messages, they released a statement that the driver of the black car was no longer considered a suspect, but was asked to call police on the chance that he may have seen something useful in the area where he found Hostetler.

Yesterday Hostetler called reporters to his home, speaking to them in the driveway with his wife at his side. Leaning on a cane, his voice rasping, Hostetler stated that, while he was glad the Good Samaritan was no longer a suspect in the case, he felt that simply lifting suspicion from him didn't go far enough.

"Those guys saved my life, maybe my soul," he stated. "I don't know where I'd be now if it hadn't been for them and that bottle thing. I don't even know if they're anywhere they'll hear this, but if they are I want them to know I'm grateful."

Questions about exactly what had happened and how a "bottle thing" had helped went unanswered, as Hostetler's voice gave out and his wife helped him back into the house.

Only two hours later, a very different view of the disappearing Good Samaritan was offered by Denny Long, owner of the Valhalla Motor Hotel in Duarte.

Long admitted that, as early as Monday afternoon, he knew that a guest at the motel who had checked out that morning fit the description of the leather-jacketed young man in the black car who was a person of interest in the Hostetler case. He did not come forward at that time, he stated, because, "I mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs."

However, Long said, he had since discovered that the young man, who was accompanied by his father, "a tough-looking guy," allegedly gave him a fraudulent credit card.

"I'm sick of hearing this secret Good Samaritan bull," Long said. "They knew they weren't going to be paying for their stay here. That's the only reason they're not taking credit for this supposed good deed."

Attempts to track the name on the card, "F. Damien Karras," have not resulted in any likely leads, and the occupants of the black car, whether life-savers or swindlers or both, appear to have vanished without a trace.

------------------------------------------------------------

THE END


End file.
